FOR a year Jo and her Professor worked and waited, hoped and loved, met occasionally, and wrote such voluminous letters that the rise in the price of paper was accounted for, Laurie said. The second year began rather soberly, for their prospects did not brighten, and Aunt March died suddenly. But when their first sorrow was over,for they loved the old lady in spite of her sharp tongue,they found they had cause for rejoicing, for she had left Plumfield to Jo, which made all sorts of joyful things possible.

I knew you d stand by me, sir. Amy does tooI see it in her eyes, though she prudently waits to turn it over in her mind before she speaks. Now, my dear people, continued Jo earnestly, just understand that this is nt a new idea of mine, but a long-cherished plan. Before my Fritz came, I used to think how, when I d made my fortune, and no one needed me at home, I d hire a big house, and pick up some poor, forlorn little lads, who had nt any mothers, and take care of them, and make life jolly for them before it was too late. I see so many going to ruin, for want of help at the right minute; I love so to do anything for them; I seem to feel their wants, and sympathize with their troubles, and, oh, I should so like to be a mother to them!

I told my plan to Fritz once, and he said it was just what he would like, and agreed to try it when we got rich. Bless his dear heart, he s been doing it all his life,helping poor boys, I mean, not getting rich; that he ll never be; money does nt stay in his pocket long enough to lay up any. But now, thanks to my good old aunt, who loved me better than I ever deserved, I m rich, at least I feel so, and we can live at Plumfield perfectly well, if we have a flourishing school. It s just the place for boys, the house is big, and the furniture strong and plain. There s plenty of room for dozens inside, and splendid grounds outside. They could help in the garden and orchard: such work is healthy, is nt it, sir? Then Fritz can train and teach in his own way, and father will help him. I can feed and nurse and pet and scold them; and mother will be my stand-by. I ve always longed for lots of boys, and never had enough; now I can fill the house full, and revel in the little dears to my hearts content. Think what luxury,Plumfield my own, and a wilderness of boys to enjoy it with me!

I dont see anything funny, she said gravely, when she could be heard. Nothing could be more natural or proper than for my Professor to open a school, and for me to prefer to reside on my own estate.

She is putting on airs already, said Laurie, who regarded the idea in the light of a capital joke. But may I inquire how you intend to support the establishment? If all the pupils are little ragamuffins, I m afraid your crop wont be profitable in a worldly sense, Mrs. Bhaer.

Now dont be a wet-blanket, Teddy. Of course I shall have rich pupils, also,perhaps begin with such altogether; then, when I ve got a start, I can take a ragamuffin or two, just for a relish. Rich peoples children often need care and comfort, as well as poor. I ve seen unfortunate little creatures left to servants, or backward ones pushed forward, when it s real cruelty. Some are naughty through mismanagement or neglect, and some lose their mothers. Besides, the best have to get through the hobbledehoy age, and that s the very time they need most patience and kindness. People laugh at them, and hustle them about, try to keep them out of sight, and expect them to turn, all at once, from pretty children into fine young men. They dont complain much,plucky little souls,but they feel it. I ve been through something of it, and I know all about it. I ve a special interest in such young bears, and like to show them that I see the warm, honest, well-meaning boys hearts, in spite of the clumsy arms and legs and the topsy-turvy heads. I ve had experience, too, for have nt I brought up one boy to be a pride and honor to his family?

And I ve succeeded beyond my hopes; for here you are, a steady, sensible business man, doing heaps of good with your money, and laying up the blessings of the poor, instead of dollars. But you are not merely a business man: you love good and beautiful things, enjoy them yourself, and let others go halves, as you always did in the old times. I am proud of you, Teddy, for you get better every year, and every one feels it, though you wont let them say so. Yes, and when I have my flock, I ll just point to you, and say, There s your model, my lads.

I say, Jo, that s rather too much, he began, just in his old boyish way. You have all done more for me than I can ever thank you for, except by doing my best not to disappoint you. You have rather cast me off lately, Jo, but I ve had the best of help, nevertheless; so, if I ve got on at all, you may thank these two for it; and he laid one hand gently on his grandfathers white head, the other on Amys golden one, for the three were never far apart.

I do think that families are the most beautiful things in all the world! burst out Jo, who was in an unusually uplifted frame of mind just then. When I have one of my own, I hope it will be as happy as the three I know and love the best. If John and my Fritz were only here, it would be quite a little heaven on earth, she added more quietly. And that night, when she went to her room, after a blissful evening of family counsels, hopes, and plans, her heart was so full of happiness that she could only calm it by kneeling beside the empty bed always near her own, and thinking tender thoughts of Beth.

It was a very astonishing year altogether, for things seemed to happen in an unusually rapid and delightful manner. Almost before she knew where she was, Jo found herself married and settled at Plumfield. Then a family of six or seven boys sprung up like mushrooms, and flourished surprisingly, poor boys as well as rich; for Mr. Laurence was continually finding some touching case of destitution, and begging the Bhaers to take pity on the child, and he would gladly pay a trifle for its support. In this way the sly old gentleman got round proud Jo, and furnished her with the style of boy in which she most delighted.

Of course it was up-hill work at first, and Jo made queer mistakes; but the wise Professor steered her safely into calmer waters, and the most rampant ragamuffin was conquered in the end. How Jo did enjoy her wilderness of boys, and how poor, dear Aunt March would have lamented had she been there to see the sacred precincts of prim, well-ordered Plumfield overrun with Toms, Dicks, and Harrys! There was a sort of poetic justice about it, after all, for the old lady had been the terror of the boys for miles round; and now the exiles feasted freely on forbidden plums, kicked up the gravel with profane boots unreproved, and played cricket in the big field where the irritable cow with a crumpled horn used to invite rash youths to come and be tossed. It became a sort of boys paradise, and Laurie suggested that it should be called the Bhaer-garten, as a compliment to its master and appropriate to its inhabitants.

It never was a fashionable school, and the Professor did not lay up a fortune; but it was just what Jo intended it to be,a happy, homelike place for boys, who needed teaching, care, and kindness. Every room in the big house was soon full; every little plot in the garden soon had its owner; a regular menagerie appeared in barn and shed, for pet animals were allowed; and, three times a day, Jo smiled at her Fritz from the head of a long table lined on either side with rows of happy young faces, which all turned to her with affectionate eyes, confiding words, and grateful hearts, full of love for Mother Bhaer. She had boys enough now, and did not tire of them, though they were not angels, by any means, and some of them caused both Professor and Professorin much trouble and anxiety. But her faith in the good spot which exists in the heart of the naughtiest, sauciest, most tantalizing little ragamuffin gave her patience, skill, and, in time, success; for no mortal boy could hold out long with Father Bhaer shining on him as benevolently as the sun, and Mother Bhaer forgiving him seventy times seven. Very precious to Jo was the friendship of the lads; their penitent sniffs and whispers after wrong-doing; their droll or touching little confidences; their pleasant enthusiasms, hopes, and plans; even their misfortunes, for they only endeared them to her all the more. There were slow boys and bashful boys; feeble boys and riotous boys; boys that lisped and boys that stuttered; one or two lame ones; and a merry little quadroon, who could not be taken in elsewhere, but who was welcome to the Bhaer-garten, though some people predicted that his admission would ruin the school.

Yes; Jo was a very happy woman there, in spite of hard work, much anxiety, and a perpetual racket. She enjoyed it heartily, and found the applause of her boys more satisfying than any praise of the world; for now she told no stories except to her flock of enthusiastic believers and admirers. As the years went on, two little lads of her own came to increase her happiness,Rob, named for grandpa, and Teddy, a happy-go-lucky baby, who seemed to have inherited his papas sunshiny temper as well as his mothers lively spirit. How they ever grew up alive in that whirlpool of boys was a mystery to their grandma and aunts; but they flourished like dandelions in spring, and their rough nurses loved and served them well.

There were a great many holidays at Plumfield, and one of the most delightful was the yearly apple-picking; for then the Marches, Laurences, Brookes, and Bhaers turned out in full force, and made a day of it. Five years after Jos wedding, one of these fruitful festivals occurred,a mellow October day, when the air was full of an exhilarating freshness which made the spirits rise, and the blood dance healthily in the veins. The old orchard wore its holiday attire; golden-rod and asters fringed the mossy walls; grasshoppers skipped briskly in the sere grass, and crickets chirped like fairy pipers at a feast; squirrels were busy with their small harvesting; birds twittered their adieux from the alders in the lane; and every tree stood ready to send down its shower of red or yellow apples at the first shake. Everybody was there; everybody laughed and sang, climbed up and tumbled down; everybody declared that there never had been such a perfect day or such a jolly set to enjoy it; and every one gave themselves up to the simple pleasures of the hour as freely as if there were no such things as care or sorrow in the world.

The Professor charged up and down the green aisles like a stout Teutonic knight, with a pole for a lance, leading on the boys, who made a hook and ladder company of themselves, and performed wonders in the way of ground and lofty tumbling. Laurie devoted himself to the little ones, rode his small daughter in a bushel-basket, took Daisy up among the birds nests, and kept adventurous Rob from breaking his neck. Mrs. March and Meg sat among the apple piles like a pair of Pomonas, sorting the contributions that kept pouring in; while Amy, with a beautiful motherly expression in her face, sketched the various groups, and watched over one pale lad, who sat adoring her with his little crutch beside him.

Jo was in her element that day, and rushed about, with her gown pinned up, her hat anywhere but on her head, and her baby tucked under her arm, ready for any lively adventure which might turn up. Little Teddy bore a charmed life, for nothing ever happened to him, and Jo never felt any anxiety when he was whisked up into a tree by one lad, galloped off on the back of another, or supplied with sour russets by his indulgent papa, who labored under the Germanic delusion that babies could digest anything, from pickled cabbage to buttons, nails, and their own small shoes. She knew that little Ted would turn up again in time, safe and rosy, dirty and serene, and she always received him back with a hearty welcome, for Jo loved her babies tenderly.

At four oclock a lull took place, and baskets remained empty, while the apple-pickers rested, and compared rents and bruises. Then Jo and Meg, with a detachment of the bigger boys, set forth the supper on the grass, for an out-of-door tea was always the crowning joy of the day. The land literally flowed with milk and honey on such occasions, for the lads were not required to sit at table, but allowed to partake of refreshment as they liked,freedom being the sauce best beloved by the boyish soul. They availed themselves of the rare privilege to the fullest extent, for some tried the pleasing experiment of drinking milk while standing on their heads, others lent a charm to leap-frog by eating pie in the pauses of the game, cookies were sown broadcast over the field, and apple-turnovers roosted in the trees like a new style of bird. The little girls had a private tea-party, and Ted roved among the edibles at his own sweet will.

When no one could eat any more, the Professor proposed the first regular toast, which was always drunk at such times,Aunt March, God bless her! A toast heartily given by the good man, who never forgot how much he owed her, and quietly drunk by the boys, who had been taught to keep her memory green.

That was given with a will, as you may well believe; and the cheering once begun, it was hard to stop it. Everybodys health was proposed, from Mr. Laurence, who was considered their special patron, to the astonished guinea-pig, who had strayed from its proper sphere in search of its young master. Demi, as the oldest grandchild, then presented the queen of the day with various gifts, so numerous that they were transported to the festive scene in a wheelbarrow. Funny presents, some of them, but what would have been defects to other eyes were ornaments to grandmas,for the childrens gifts were all their own. Every stitch Daisys patient little fingers had put into the handkerchiefs she hemmed was better than embroidery to Mrs. March; Demis shoe-box was a miracle of mechanical skill, though the cover would nt shut; Robs footstool had a wiggle in its uneven legs, that she declared was soothing; and no page of the costly book Amys child gave her was so fair as that on which appeared, in tipsy capitals, the words,To dear Grandma, from her little Beth.

During the ceremony the boys had mysteriously disappeared; and, when Mrs. March had tried to thank her children, and broken down, while Teddy wiped her eyes on his pinafore, the Professor suddenly began to sing. Then, from above him, voice after voice took up the words, and from tree to tree echoed the music of the unseen choir, as the boys sung, with all their hearts, the little song Jo had written, Laurie set to music, and the Professor trained his lads to give with the best effect. This was something altogether new, and it proved a grand success; for Mrs. March could nt get over her surprise, and insisted on shaking hands with every one of the featherless birds, from tall Franz and Emil to the little quadroon, who had the sweetest voice of all.

I dont think I ever ought to call myself Unlucky Jo again, when my greatest wish has been so beautifully gratified, said Mrs. Bhaer, taking Teddys little fist out of the milk-pitcher, in which he was rapturously churning.

Dear fellows! It does my heart good to see them forget business, and frolic for a day, answered Jo, who now spoke in a maternal way of all mankind. Yes, I remember; but the life I wanted then seems selfish, lonely, and cold to me now. I have nt given up the hope that I may write a good book yet, but I can wait, and I m sure it will be all the better for such experiences and illustrations as these; and Jo pointed from the lively lads in the distance to her father, leaning on the Professors arm, as they walked to and fro in the sunshine, deep in one of the conversations which both enjoyed so much, and then to her mother, sitting enthroned among her daughters, with their children in her lap and at her feet, as if all found help and happiness in the face which never could grow old to them.

My castle was the most nearly realized of all. I asked for splendid things, to be sure, but in my heart I knew I should be satisfied, if I had a little home, and John, and some dear children like these. I ve got them all, thank God, and am the happiest woman in the world; and Meg laid her hand on her tall boys head, with a face full of tender and devout content.

My castle is very different from what I planned, but I would not alter it, though, like Jo, I dont relinquish all my artistic hopes, or confine myself to helping others fulfil their dreams of beauty. I ve begun to model a figure of baby, and Laurie says it is the best thing I ve ever done. I think so myself, and mean to do it in marble, so that, whatever happens, I may at least keep the image of my little angel.

As Amy spoke, a great tear dropped on the golden hair of the sleeping child in her arms; for her one well-beloved daughter was a frail little creature and the dread of losing her was the shadow over Amys sunshine. This cross was doing much for both father and mother, for one love and sorrow bound them closely together. Amys nature was growing sweeter, deeper, and more tender; Laurie was growing more serious, strong, and firm; and both were learning that beauty, youth, good fortune, even love itself, cannot keep care and pain, loss and sorrow, from the most blessed; for

She is growing better, I am sure of it, my dear. Dont despond, but hope and keep happy, said Mrs. March, as tender-hearted Daisy stooped from her knee, to lay her rosy cheek against her little cousins pale one.

I never ought to, while I have you to cheer me up, Marmee, and Laurie to take more than half of every burden, replied Amy warmly. He never lets me see his anxiety, but is so sweet and patient with me, so devoted to Beth, and such a stay and comfort to me always, that I cant love him enough. So, in spite of my one cross, I can say with Meg, Thank God, I m a happy woman.

There s no need for me to say it, for every one can see that I m far happier than I deserve, added Jo, glancing from her good husband to her chubby children, tumbling on the grass beside her. Fritz is getting gray and stout; I m growing as thin as a shadow, and am thirty; we never shall be rich, and Plumfield may burn up any night, for that incorrigible Tommy Bangs will smoke sweet-fern cigars under the bed-clothes, though he s set himself afire three times already. But in spite of these unromantic facts, I have nothing to complain of, and never was so jolly in my life. Excuse the remark, but living among boys, I cant help using their expressions now and then.

Not half so good as yours, mother. Here it is, and we never can thank you enough for the patient sowing and reaping you have done, cried Jo, with the loving impetuosity which she never would outgrow.